Here Is the Place Where I Love You
by rosedale
Summary: Kurt has survived the Hunger Games and is now presented with the heart wrenching prospect of preparing District 12's new tributes.
1. Chapter 1

Dsclaimer: I do not own Glee or _The Hunger Games_.

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><p>They've found me. I don't know how. I'm certain I wasn't followed and I was extremely careful when I disguised the mouth of the shallow little cave I'm taking refuge in. But all the precautions I took don't matter now because I can hear their feet snapping twigs mere yards from where I'm huddled against the cold stone wall.<p>

I stand up because Kurt Hummel is not going to die crouched in the dark. I owe it to all the people that love me back home, and are undoubtedly watching my every move right now, to fight. Just the thought of my father, Carole, Finn, and Blaine watching with horror as a career tribute slides a knife hilt-deep into my stomach makes my lungs spasm and a sob threatens to escape my throat. But at the same time something steely twists in my gut and my fingers wrap around the handle of my long bladed hunting knife.

The footsteps outside come even closer and I can't help but fear that every foot fall is a death toll announcing the demise of Kurt Hummel. He was a brave soul, but let's be honest. He never really had much of a chance in these games, did he?

I try to peer toward the mouth of the cave, which I piled high with shrubs and brambles only this morning, but my eyes are unable to pierce the darkness. It's unnaturally dark, and I feel like I'm down in one of the coal mines in District 12. This must be one of the Gamemakers' tricks because fifteen minutes ago moonlight filtered through my make shift door to give the cave a bit of illumination, but now I can't even see the end of my own nose.

Then suddenly, I hear something pushed aside and the footsteps come running. I hold my knife before me, slashing blindly. Someone curses loudly but the next second a rough hand clamps around my wrist and renders it immobile. I kick desperately, and when arms wrap around my waist I thrash harder. I can feel the cold sting of sharp metal only seconds away as I ram my head backwards hoping to collide with a skull and find only air.

The arms around me tighten and I can feel a muscular body pressed against mine. I twist until my face is buried against the exposed flesh of my captor's neck and I open my mouth ready to sink my teeth in as hard as I can.

But as I press my face to the bare skin a familiar sent fills my nose and confusion washes over my mind. I expected to smell sweat, and dirt, and blood, and dusty grass, but instead I smell cinnamon, and coffee, and something a little smoky. This isn't a smell that sends terror racing through my veins; this is the smell of home.

The sounds of scuffling feet and violent grunts die in my ears as I realize a soothing voice is murmuring my name over and over and a pair of lips is pressing kisses across the top of my head.

I sag back into the arms that I now realize aren't those of a blood thirsty career tribute, but those of the man I love.

Blaine must feel the difference because he pulls back a few inches and asks gently, "Kurt?"

I let my eyelids flutter open and am met with wide honey brown eyes laced with flecks of green and filled with concern. "You're alright, I've got you. Do you know where you are?"

I nod heavily and pull myself closer to Blaine so that when I answer I'm mumbling into the side of his neck, "The most charming and well decorated house in Victory Village in the most unfortunately dreary District 12."

"Bingo," Blaine says, and I think I can hear a small smile in his voice as the tension in his arms relaxes slightly.

I pull away so that my head is resting on a pillow again. Blaine disentangles his arm from around my waist and twines his fingers through mine. "Was it the arena again?" He asks, already knowing the answer.

I nod.

"Harmony?"

I shake my head, "No, the careers."

Comprehension lights in Blaine's eyes, "Oh, I should have known. You almost bit me, didn't you?"

I grimace apologetically and sigh, "Yeah, sorry about that."

"I can't say I really mind your tendencies to bite," Blaine says with a smirk and a flirty waggle of his eyebrows, "but I think it's best if we limit that particular action to strictly nonviolent activities."

I can't help but snort at my utterly ridiculous boyfriend who makes lame sexual comments right after I wake up from a nightmare, but I'm reminded again why I love Blaine so much. Not only does he hold me as I thrash around reliving hell, but he knows how to make me smile even when I am on the verge of tears.

"It's been a couple of weeks since you've had a nightmare." He says casually. He's rubbing his thumb up and down the length of mine, soothing me with the repetitive motion.

I shrug, "I think it's all the stress bringing them back. The anticipation leading to today is killing me. The reaping has always been hovering in the distance, I suppose, but now that it's here I don't know what to do."

Concerned lines etch themselves in to Blaine's forehead. I wish he wouldn't furrow his brows like that because he's going to give himself premature wrinkles, although I'm sure Blaine would still be breathtakingly hansom, even with wrinkles. However, now probably isn't the time to fixate on the future of my boyfriend's skin when we're contemplating the future of innocent lives.

"Just do your job, that's all you can do."

I laugh humorlessly, "My job? You mean preparing innocent children for slaughter?"

"Hey," Blaine says, the lines etching themselves deeper, "don't talk like that." One of his broad, warm hands cups my face and his thumb rubs gently across my cheek bone. I can't help but nuzzle into his touch. When I look back at his eyes his gaze is so intense that I feel my breath hitch.

"You listen to me Kurt Hummel You are the bravest person I know. You went through hell in that arena and came out the same caring, compassionate, boy I fell in love with.

"Today two innocent lives are going to be put under your mentorship and I know that you are going to give them the best chance possible of escaping that arena."

Hot tears slide unbidden from my eyes and when I'm finally able to speak the words are choked, "B-but what if I can't do it. What if they d-die, even in the best scenario one would have to die." I can't stop the sob that escapes my lips.

Blaine reaches out and swipes away the tears pooling on the soft skin below my eyes, "Well, then you are going to give them the best chance you can, and maybe they will find some peace and comfort in knowing that at least someone was looking out for them in their last few days."

I nod and blink the remnants of tears from my eyes.

"Now come here and let me give you a back rub," Blaine says, his tone suddenly light, "I'm sure your back is a knotted mess."

He props himself against the head board and pats the spot between his legs for me to sit. I pull myself, up marveling at how Blaine seems to be the master of some sixth sense that tells him exactly what I need. With a contented sigh I settle myself between Blaine's legs facing away from him.

Blaine's hands feel wonderful on my back. His fingers fan across my skin and rub up and down as if simply taking in the sensation of touching me for a moment. Then slowly they find their way to the tense muscles along my spine and across my shoulders. With practiced precision they kneed the knots out of my back, coaxing the stiff muscles to relax. It's not long before I'm melting under Blaine's touch.

"Thank you, Blaine." I manage to articulate between appreciative moans.

"Wow, gratitude before I'm even finished." Blaine teases.

"Not for the back rub, well for that too, but mostly for the other things, for what you said… for believing in me… for everything."

"Always," I hear Blaine murmur and his lips brush a soft kiss in between my shoulder blades.

Much to my delight the kisses continue in a trail up to my neck and, deciding that kissing Blaine is even better than a back rub, I twist around so that our lips can meet.

The kiss is gentle and tender but not lacking passion. After a few moments I pull away and rest our foreheads together. "I'm going to miss you, you know," I whisper. "I'm going to miss your lips," I kiss him again. "I'm going to miss your eyes," Blaine's eyes flutter shut so I can brush my lips against each of his eyelids. "I'm going to miss your curls," I plant a kiss on the crown of his head and scrunch my nose against the way they tickle. I must still be making a silly face as I come back to meet Blaine's eyes because his lips twitch upward in a small grin. "And I'm sure as hell going to miss your smile." I kiss Blaine again, and this time we're both smiling into the kiss.

When I pull away Blaine is beaming at me in his endearingly bright manner, but then his cheerfulness seems to falter and his eyebrows twitch together a fraction of a millimeter.

"There's still a chance you won't be missing me, not yet anyway."

Fear seems to creep into the edges of Blaine's eyes and I could almost kick myself for being so inconsiderate. Blaine has been comforting me all morning, and I haven't taken a moment to consider that he has to attend the reaping today, and there is a chance, albeit a small one, that his name will be called and he will be thrown into the arena just as I was last year.

"That's not going to happen, Blaine." I say with all the assuredness I can muster.

He won't meet my eyes, instead he's staring fixedly at the quilt beneath us, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

"You don't know that."

"No, I don't," I say, cupping his face in my hands and forcing him to meet my eyes, "but I have to hope that at least some of the odds are in our favor.

"And besides, you've never had to opt for a tesserae so your name has never been added extra times. Six slips of paper will have your name on it, which is far below average for District 12."

"There is still a chance—"

"Of course there is," I say as softly and compassionately as I can, "but like I said I have to hope that _some _of the odds are on our side. Either way, worrying about it won't change anything. Just try to relax until the time comes and then when they read those names and they aren't yours come back here and try not to forget me while I'm off being the capitol's little bitch."

Some of my determination must have rubbed off on Blaine because as soon as I'm done talking he pulls me into a deep kiss. When he pulls away he's smiling again as he asks, "Breakfast?"

We end up stumbling into the kitchen of my house, still shirtless with Blaine's arms wrapped around my waist and his lips engaged in sucking on a spot below my right ear.

Blaine groans as I disentangle myself from his arms but seeing as I am making coffee he doesn't complain. I don't have one of those fancy coffee makers from the Capitol, but I make due, and soon the kitchen is filled with the scent of brewing coffee.

"You know what the best part of dating a victor is?" Blaine says inhaling deeply.

"The coffee?" I can't help but laugh because Blaine has made this a kind of running joke that really shouldn't have been funny after the first fifty times he said it, but I find something about the silliness of it charming that I end up laughing every time.

"Yup," he hums happily as I pour each of us a mug and he takes a sip. "Mmm, so much better than that shit the miners drink." He takes another large gulp and smiles.

"What's that?" he asks gesturing toward a brown cardboard box on the counter.

"Oh," I say, brightening excitedly because this is something I forgot to tell Blaine that I'm sure he'll absolutely love, "I picked up a little something for our families. A little going away present from me."

Blaine curiously raises an eyebrow and reaches a hand toward the box, looking back at me for permission. I nod and he removes the lid.

"Oh, Kurt, they're gorgeous."

He looks down at the two beautifully frosted cakes, each about the size of a small plate. Blue and yellow icing flowers bloom out of the centers, their petals curling delicately outward. Intricate spring green vines creep from the blossoms to twine around the sides of the cakes, swirling and looping in graceful patterns.

"I figured our families could eat them tonight, you know since dinner after the reaping is supposed to be a celebration." I shiver involuntarily, because no matter how hard the Capitol tries to make people celebrate the beginning of the games I know that people will really be celebrating their children not being shipped off to the arena, while two families inevitably won't be able to stomach any food as they stare at the empty chair where their child should be sitting.

"I didn't even know they made cakes this beautiful!" Blaine exclaims in childlike delight and looks at me in amazement, "How did you get them?"

I shrug casually as I place my hands on Blaine's hips and rest my chin on his shoulder, "I had to flirt with the baker's son for them."

Blaine snorts, "And he was receptive?"

My lips curve into a smirk and I kiss the side of Blaine's neck, "I got the cakes didn't I?" I drop my voice into what I hope is a more seductive tone and brush my lips along the shell of Blaine's ear, "Unfortunately for him, I'm not into the blond, stocky type."

"Oh, really?"

"Mm hmm, I prefer the dark haired, deceptively muscular type." I kiss across the back of Blaine's neck.

"Can we eat one now?"

I raise an eyebrow although Blaine can't see me, "Blaine, I told you…"

"I know , but it's not like my parents are going to care, and beside they'd probably be happier and more likely to celebrate if I did get chosen."

Something icy cold curls in the pit of my stomach. "Don't say that!" I scold, even though I knew what he said was true.

"Please, Kurt?" He twists his neck so that he can fix my gaze with those big puppy dog eyes, his hand already fishing for a fork in the drawer in front of him.

"Oh, alright."

Blaine lets out a triumphant whoop and lifts the cake out of the box to set it on the counter. He grasps the fork in one hand and plunges it toward the cake, then stops it millimeters away from the waves of sculpted sugar. I watch as he tilts his head to the side considering the cake for a moment, "It's so pretty, I feel bad eating it."

I laugh and shake my head fondly, "Go ahead Blaine, that's what it's for."

A huge grin splits Blaine's face as he finally digs his fork in and pulls away a large chunk, revealing the deliciously golden inside of the cake.

I expect him to shove the bite into his mouth, but instead he raises it to my lips. I can't help but smile, because Blaine is truly adorable, then I open my mouth obediently so Blaine can feed me.

The cake is heavenly, sweet and sugary with the distinct flavor of vanilla. As I finish chewing Blaine presses a chaste kiss to my lips. When he pulls away his tongue darts out over his own lips and he hums happily, "You taste sweet."

He forks a morsel of cake into his own mouth and groans as the sweet flavor hits his tongue.

We continue eating the cake bite by bite for a few minutes, simply relishing the delicious flavor and the proximity of our bodies which I know I will sorely miss in the days ahead. I'm holding onto this moment because as soon as Blaine walks out my door I won't get the chance to touch or even talk to Blaine for what could be close to two months.

"You know," Blaine says finally, "This frosting matches your eyes." And before I can even catch on to what he's doing he plunges his finger into the blue frosted flower in the center of the cake. He quickly flips around so that he's facing me, and with a mischievous grin curling the corners of his lips and brightening his eyes, he swipes the iced finger across my cheek.

I shriek in surprise and narrow my eyes at my boyfriend's overly large grin. "You're going to regret that Blaine Anderson."

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><p>I arrive at the square early. It's still practically empty, aside from the peacekeepers setting up the roped off areas where they will sort the children of District 12 by age and the camera crews that scuttle across the rooftops preparing their equipment.<p>

I wait off to the side of the temporary stage that has been constructed in front of the Justice Building. I try to stare blankly at the colorful banners hanging limply in the windless air, but my eyes keep shifting to the stage and the two large glass balls filled with slips of paper. Inside those glass balls are the names of innocent children and from them two names will be randomly selected that decide the two tributes, one male one female, from District 12.

I feel someone tap my shoulder and flinch involuntarily before turning around to find myself face to face with the most insufferable woman that I have ever had the misfortune to meet, Effie Trinket.

"Hello, Kurt!" Effie beams, her teeth looking unnaturally white against her lilac painted lips. She looks appalling in a bizarrely cut turquoise skirt suit with unflattering asymmetrical lines. A pinkish beehive wig balances precariously on her head and her makeup is in shades of lilac that make her look horribly washed out. If her outfit is any indication, styles in the Capitol have become even more horrendous since the last time I was there.

I gather myself enough to at least be polite and gift her with a terse, "Hello, Effie."

"Isn't it a beautiful day?" Effie gushes and I know she's either trying to win some of my favor by complimenting District 12 or she's completely delusional, because the low hanging clouds tinted grey with coal smoke give the sky an utterly dreary appearance.

"I have a good feeling about this year," she says in a conspiratorial stage whisper. "I wouldn't be surprised if we could pull off another District 12 victory!" She smiles smugly.

I raise an eyebrow in contempt. Not only is Effie Trinket obnoxious but she views the games as a way to boost her career and social prominence. She doesn't seem to care that it was the exploitation of children being forced to kill other children that paid for her atrocious wig.

I told myself I would be civil to Effie but I feel my resolve slipping. So I do what I do best and smile disgustingly sweetly and say in a voice dripping with sugary sarcasm, "Yes, let's hope we get one of the big burly eighteen-year-olds so they can snap the little twelve-year-old tributes in half with their bare hands." I feel a small burst of triumph as Effie's smile falters.

"I was there in that arena last year Effie," I say never letting my tone be anything but sickeningly cheerful, "I killed four children, children that could have had futures if it wasn't for these horrific games. And just because I'm a mentor now doesn't mean I like them any better. So please, while you're gossiping about which district will win an playing dress up with our tributes, try to remember that we are destroying children and ripping apart families." I give her the biggest smile I can muster and wink playfully for good measure.

By the time I finish talking Effie's eyes are huge and her mouth is opening and closing soundlessly, making her look rather like a large purple and blue fish.

Finally she gains enough composure to speak, "Well, um yes I'll try to keep that in mind." She straightens her precariously perched wig and with some of her trademark cheerfulness back in her command says, "Well then I must be getting ready, see you on the stage!" and trots off.

I really hope Effie takes what I was trying to say to heart because our partnership isn't going to work out very well if she doesn't. I try to push Effie from my mind for now. God knows I'm going to have to spend far too much time with her in the coming weeks, and if I don't kill her because of her insensitivity and aggravating personality, I may just strangle her if she doesn't get a better wig.

My eyes focus back in on the now rapidly filling square. Every citizen in District 12 is required to attend the reaping and serious consequences await those who don't.

I've never been on this side of the reaping before and it's odd to know that I have faced what these grim faced people fear and managed to survive. I hope, although I know it is impossible, that none of these people will ever have to go through what I went through, but that comes with an even stranger realization because I am then wishing myself to be forever isolated, for no one to ever understand my pain and my struggle. But I guess I would rather be estranged than have any one suffer as I did.

I search through the crowd for a familiar tattered cap and finally locate it near the back of the square. I can't see my dad's face hidden behind the crush of bodies, but I'm sure his jaw is set firmly as he clasps Carole's hand in his.

I think back to last night and my father's parting words as we said good-bye for what was sure to be a few long weeks. He had clapped me on the back and muttered, "You'll do alright Kiddo, just don't let them make you forget who you are. Love ya Kiddo."

I blink back tears that I can't allow myself to indulge in at the moment and search the area at the very front of the crowd designated for eighteen-year-olds for Finn. I find him almost instantly, due to the fact that he towers over the rest of the crowd. He's shifting awkwardly from foot to foot but he doesn't look as scared as some of the other faces around him. One of the things I will always admire about my step brother, no matter how many withering looks I give him for it, is that he is an eternal optimist, a trait that would either drive him crazy or get him killed in the arena.

Finn fiddles with the cuffs of my dad's old suit jacket that he's borrowed for the occasion. I don't believe in God but if there is some type of benevolent being that runs this disaster we call life, I pray that it will not choose Finn to be a tribute. The innocent desire to be optimistic needs to live on in the few people who naturally possess it, because it is a virtue the world is fast forgetting.

My eyes wander away from Finn but they don't get very far before they meet the one pair of eyes in the whole crowd staring directly at me. I can't see the flecks of green in Blaine's honey colored eyes from this distance, but I can see the fear. Anyone else would think he was cool and collected, but I can see all the flaws in his impassive façade even from this distance. He's holding himself too straight, the corners of his mouth are too tense, a line has appeared between his eyebrows, and his eyes are open too wide. Behind that calm exterior, the boy is terrified.

Blaine had seemed confident enough when he had washed the remnants of blue frosting out of his hair and kissed me goodbye this morning, but I know all too well how any sense of comfort could vanish once you are herded into those claustrophobic pens for the reaping.

Blaine looks so young when he's scared. All I want to do is hold him and tell him everything will be alright but I can't, and I don't even know if it will be alright. All that I know is that Blaine deserves better than this. Blaine who has faced hatred from random strangers, violence from Peacekeepers, and disapproval from his father for being who he is; Blaine who has always put on a brave face and tried to help others better their own lives, who has never failed to lend words of encouragement. He deserves better than this screwed up world.

I find myself chewing nervously at the inside of my cheek, because even though with so few entries it's unlikely Blaine will be chosen, the idea causes me so much stress that I can't stop myself. Finn being selected to be a tribute would be upsetting, but Blaine being selected to be a tribute with his big heart and fragile courage would be devastating. He deserves all the happiness that he tries to give to others.

I'm ushered onto the stage by Effie who seems to be in an excited tizzy at the prospect of the cameras finally turning on, and take my seat next to the only other living victor from District 12, the town drunk, who is unfortunately my neighbor. I can tell he is absolutely wasted again, so as I cross my legs primly I do my best to sit as far from him as our neighboring chairs allow. I wrinkle my nose and scold him under my breath, "You smell homeless, Haymitch. Homeless."

Haymitch fixes me with a bleary stare and slurs, "Nice to see you, Kate," before his head lolls forward and he's asleep drooling onto his already stained shirt.

I will never understand how I survived the Hunger Games with a mentor too drunk to remember my name, or my gender for that matter.

The mayor steps up to the podium and begins to speak but I'm not paying attention to what he says because I realize that Blaine is still watching me.

I give him a tight lipped smile and raise my right hand a few inches of my knee to subtly wave at him. It's not much but he seems to notice and his shoulders relax some as he gives me his own small wave and the ghost of a smile.

Blaine's told me several times that any fear or anxiety he feels get exponentially stronger when he's not with me, a side effect of the trauma he went through watching me in the games. It makes my heart ache when I think about it because I would spend every day of my life with Blaine if I could, but certain obligations, such as my upcoming stint in the Capitol, make that impossible. I hope he'll do alright without me. At least when we're separated this time he won't have to worry about me getting killed every second.

The mayor rattles on for a little longer until finally Effie stands up and I'm forced to pay attention to her, because this means its only seconds until I discover who the two children that I have to turn into blood thirsty killers are.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" Effie chirps as she beams at the cameras and unsmiling faces of District 12. She bubbles on for a while longer until she finally plunges her hand into one of the glass bubbles with a jolly, "Ladies first!"

The square is dead silent until Effie reads, "Sarah Mayflower!"

I know I really shouldn't be relieved but I am because it's no one I know. Still, I feel my heart breaking as stick-thin little Sarah Mayflower emerges from the area designated for fourteen-year-olds and makes her way to the stage sobbing.

Sarah looks broken; her shoulders slumping and chin dropping with no sign of fight in her. I curse under my breath because it is obvious this girl gave up as soon as she heard her name read. I scan her undernourished slightly gawky frame. She has neither looks nor apparent physical ability to recommend her and I steel myself knowing that I am going to lose this tribute.

Of course no one volunteers to go in her stead, no one ever does.

I stand to "congratulate" Sarah as is my job. I end up trying to comfort her as much as possible with a brief hug. To sympathize too much with her fear on national television wouldn't be looked on in a positive light by those in positions of power.

Then I fall back but remain standing as Effie approaches the glass balls a second time. I forget about Sarah as Effie's hand hovers over the second glass ball, the ball that holds so many slips of paper with the names of people I love. I feel suddenly nauseous as her hand plunges downward.

The whole square holds its breath as Effie's fingers latch onto a slip of paper. She pulls it out of the ball and I think I should have sat down because my knees are wobbling dangerously beneath me.

Effie's lips part and she speaks a single name that makes my world freeze, "Blaine Anderson."


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry for the delay, life got in the way. I promise to update more regularly. I have 5 chapters done at this point which I will post through out the next week or so. If any one is still interested in reading this I hope you enjoy it!

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or _The Hunger Game_

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><p>The mine tunnel was lit only by flickering candles held into the walls by metal stakes every few yards. The light they gave was hardly enough to see by, and so much of the tunnel was still in shadow.<p>

I was walking along the cart track that ran down the center of the tunnel, carefully putting one foot in front of the other and holding my arms out for balance. I was seven-years-old and ecstatic that my dad had taken me with him on a repair trip to the mines. I loved spending time with my dad and ever since my mom had died I was prone to frightened fits of crying if I was away from him for too long.

I had never been in the mines before and it was something of an exciting adventure for me.

As I took another step my foot slipped on the smooth metal. I stumbled and my shoe became wedged at an awkward angle between the rail and a crossbeam. Unable to dislodge it myself, I looked up to call for my dad. The words died in my throat because racing toward me, and gathering speed due to the gradual slope of the tunnel floor, was a mine cart.

My world froze, and I was gripped by a fear so debilitating that no matter how urgently my brain screamed at me to try to wrench my foot out of the track, I couldn't move a muscle.

My eyes fixed on the rapidly approaching cart and the only coherent thought my petrified mind could create was, 'I'm not ready to die, not yet.'

I don't know if my dad heard the cart over the racket he was making repairing a broken generator, or if I had somehow managed to scream and alert him, but seconds before the cart would have plowed me flat his strong arms wound around my small frame and yanked me free.

I can still recall perfectly the feeling of terror and shock that bubbled in my gut as I watched a horrific fate barrel toward me. I have experienced that feeling exactly one other time in my life: the moment I heard my name called as District 12 tribute.

Blaine is feeling it right now. I can tell. All color has drained from his face, the whites of his eyes are visible even from where I'm standing, and his lips are slightly parted as he stares in horror at the small slip of paper in Effie's hand.

My own heart stutters painfully then is suddenly deafeningly loud in my ears.

This can't be happening, not to Blaine. I have to pull him out of the way of that cart, even if it means throwing myself in its way instead.

I stumble forward, ready to scream the two words that are getting louder and louder inside my head with every heart beat: _I volunteer_.

I haven't even gotten the first syllable out before I am jerked violently backward by the collar of my jacket. The sudden movement leaves me breathless and I'm unable to recover before the scent of liquor fills my nose and a voice hisses in my ear, "You fool, what are you doing? A victor can't volunteer for a tribute! Save some face for you and for him. The Capitol is watching."

I don't know when Haymitch woke up or how he's lucid enough to understand what I was about to do, but he's right. I can't volunteer. If I volunteer people will think I'm insane, and I need the big shot sponsors in the Capitol to think that I'm a competent mentor or else they aren't going to invest any money in Blaine, and I know all too well that financial backing can alter your chances in the Games.

I straighten myself up quickly, brushing out the wrinkles in my jacket and making sure that my hair hasn't fallen out of place. I take a quick peek at the camera crews. They are all focused on Blaine. Luckily, none seems to have been filming my brief scuffle with Haymitch.

My eyes snap back to the object of their attention. The transformation that has come over Blaine in the last few seconds is so astounding that I find myself gasping.

When I'm prepared I can be extremely good at hiding my feelings, and my façade of confident haughtiness can fool almost anyone. However, when it comes to masking emotion, I am nothing compared to Blaine. With each step closer to the stage he seems to grow more self-assured and even comfortable. I have seen Blaine put on a brave face dozens of time, but the performance he is giving right now is truly remarkable. He holds his head high, his chin raised just enough to give him an air of determined confidence that doesn't look too strained. There is tension in the way his eyes are slightly narrowed but the rest of his face is relaxed, his forehead free of worry lines and the muscles in his jaw free of stiffness. Even his stride is assured as he takes long, even steps that carry him past the crowd of solemn spectators.

I've started chewing at the inside of my cheek again, both to stop from crying and to prevent my jaw from hanging open in wonder at how impressive Blaine looks right now. I hope he looks as imposing on camera as he does in person. A good first impression is extremely important.

Blaine steps onto the platform and Effie asks for volunteers. I hold my breath, hoping against hope that there is someone out there who will volunteer, but no one does. No one ever does.

Haymitch prods me forward because now it's my cue. As I step toward Blaine I fight down the urge to throw my arms around him. With all the cameras trained on us all I can do is reach out a hand for him to shake. As soon as we touch I can feel him quivering, and not just his hand, his whole body is shaking in what I know is fear and dread and a cacophony of other emotions that don't have names. Yet his face is still determinedly calm and confident.

I stare into his eyes hoping he knows that if all of Panem weren't watching us right now I would wrap my arms around him so tightly that he wouldn't be able to so much as shiver. As it is, I still hold onto his hand for longer than is appropriate and give it a reassuring squeeze before Haymitch is drunkenly slapping him on the shoulder.

I help Haymitch back to our seats as the Mayor reads the Treaty of Treason. Blaine is standing almost directly in front of me, he hardly moves throughout the whole speech.

When the anthem plays I stand as is expected, but I'm not paying attention to the music. I'm remembering what it was like last year. Everything had seemed so dreamlike and surreal. Now everything seems too sharp and painfully real. There is no dreamy haze that can protect me from the cold hard fact that Blaine will either be a victor or a victim of the Hunger Games.

The anthem ends and a group of Peacekeepers converge on Blaine and Sarah and march them into the Justice Building. I keep my composure as I follow behind. It won't do for District 12 to think both of their victors are raging mad men. Haymitch is already staggering off the stage shouting a loud string of profanities for no apparent reason. Although, I have a feeling they are meant for the Capitol.

The Peacekeepers deposit Sarah and Blaine in separate rooms. Then half of the force exits the building again, leaving only two Peacekeepers at each door.

I swallow as I realize that Blaine is in the same exact room I was in last year. I reach for the door knob. Before I can reach it someone steps in my way.

"You can't go in there." A heavy browed Peacekeeper grunts brusquely.

I arch one eyebrow and give him a condescending look, "I'm his mentor."

"Only loved ones allowed."

"Ah, let him in, he's the closest loved one the kid's got."

I turn around surprised to see that the other Peacekeeper is one of my dad's buddies, Cal. I've known Cal for years, and he's a genuinely nice guy despite his job.

The heavy browed Peacekeeper gives a loud huff but he steps aside and I give Cal a thankful nod before quickly letting myself into the room.

The room is exactly how I remember it, with dark cream walls, thick curtains, lacquered wood, and velvet couches. The Justice Building is probably the most richly furnished building in District 12 but I know from experience that it is practically a hovel compared to the lavish set-ups in some of the other Districts.

Blaine is sitting on the green velvet couch. He is almost perfectly still with his elbows resting on his knees, his back hunched, and his hands hanging limply. His eyes stare unseeingly at the rug.

He doesn't acknowledge my presence for a moment so I restrain myself from throwing myself at him. He must be confused right now and I don't know if strangling him with a desperate hug is going to be any help.

Suddenly, his voice breaks the silence and it sounds so fragile and desperate that something in my chest spasms, "Kurt."

I kneel before him and take his limp hands in mine. "Hey, Blaine," my voice is shakier than I want it to be.

His eyes are wet and already starting to redden. All the emotion he had hidden is there, the desperation, terror, and even a pleading type of disbelief.

"Is it real?" He whispers and my heart breaks because he is pleading, begging that I say 'no'.

"Yeah."

His eyes screw up and his lips press tightly together as if he's in pain. Deep wrinkles mar his forehead and his shoulders begin to shake. The first tear escapes from his eye to plummet onto our clasped hands and a raw sob parts his lips.

I throw myself at him. My hands grabbing at his waist and pulling him close. I let him hide his face in the crook of my neck as I try to pull us closer together than is physically possible. We end up in an awkward tangle on the sofa, but I don't care and I know he doesn't either, because both of us are crying openly and Blaine's sobs are so violent that the whole couch is shaking.

"I didn't think it would be me," he chokes his hands clutching desperately at my shirt.

"I know, I know." I murmur, trying to sound soothing, but that's nearly impossible at this point because my voice cracks and sounds pinched and stuffy.

"I mean I-I… I worried-d-d, but I didn't think I-I—" His words start and stop with violent stutters as he sobs hysterically. I can feel his tears and saliva dampening a large spot on my jacket, but I just hold him tighter and run a shaking hand up and down his back trying to make little soothing noises that sound more like whimpers.

It doesn't take very long for his sobs to calm. We both know that we have less than an hour before we have to face the cameras at the train station. With a last sniff Blaine straightens up and rubs at the tear tracks streaking his cheeks.

"Thank you." He says with a grim smile.

I lean in to kiss the last tear from his cheek, "Any time."

I want so badly to push Blaine onto his back and kiss him so deeply that he forgets all of this for just moment, but the door behind us swings open. We look over the back of the couch to see Blaine's two best friends, Wes and David ushered into the room.

"Hey Blaine." David says, I can tell from the way their eyes take in our faces that we look like shit. Thankfully both boys have enough tact not to say anything.

"Hey guys." Blaine croaks.

Wes and David settle themselves on the other couch. They share a brief glance and then dive into what sounds like a perfectly casual conversation. I breathe a sigh of relief because right now casual is exactly what I need, and Blaine too. We need a brief respite before plunged into more emotional chaos.

They soon get Blaine talking and their conversation is riddled with memories and jokes that only the three of them understand. It's sweet to watch really. I can see what they're doing, the way they're telling Blaine what a good friend he is and how much he means to them without getting sappy or over emotional. They are proving how much they love him without the tired clichés that usually plague such a good-bye.

Their ploy is working too. Five minutes ago I was convinced I wouldn't see a genuine smile on Blaine's face for weeks, yet now I just heard him laugh. Blaine has my absolute favorite laugh, but I have a feeling I won't be hearing it very often once we get to the Capitol.

I feel a tiny spark of warmth try to rekindle itself in me as Blaine laughs.

Without looking away from David, who is telling a very animated story about a time the three friends stole a Peacekeeper's badge, Blaine squeezes my hand. Blaine had grabbed my hand the moment Wes and David showed up and hasn't let go of it since. He keeps squeezing it at random intervals as if to remind himself that I'm still here.

Wes and David are ushered out far too soon and replaced by two less welcome visitors.

Mrs. Anderson hurries over to Blaine as soon as she enters the room. She's clutching a white handkerchief in her hand that she periodically dabs at her eyes with. "Oh, Blaine!" she cries, sinking down next to her son and throwing her arms around him.

I tense and get ready to pull my hand away but Blaine squeezes it again so I keep our fingers intertwined.

In an attempt to give the mother and son a modicum of privacy I look across the room and inadvertently lock eyes with Blaine's father.

His face is stoic and I can't glean the slightest hint of emotion from it. After holding my gaze for a second he looks away without so much as a word or a nod. I'm not surprised. Mr. Anderson's feelings toward me have always been just short of loathing. I am after all, 'the boy who seduced his son into unnatural ways'. And that's when he's in a good mood. I don't like dwelling on the names he has for me when he's in a bad mood.

Mr. Anderson's hatred of me doesn't bother me as much as it probably should. What does bother me is how needlessly cruel he is to Blaine. He's always had a problem with his son's sexuality and he can't bring himself to look past it to acknowledge any of the things that make Blaine so wonderful.

I watch him carefully as he crosses the room to stand in front of his son.

"So, a District 12 tribute?" he says, his voice still as flat and monotone as unpolished metal. "How do you feel?"

The way Blaine looks up at his father with wide, honest, and hopeful eyes makes my own eyes sting with the threat of returning tears.

"Scared."

His brow hardens, "Scared?" This time the emotion in his voice is impossible to miss because his tone drips with disapproval.

"Fear is healthy!" Blaine's mother reassures hastily. "It will make you work harder and help you avoid danger." Her voice jumps to a higher pitch. "Yes, fear is good, it will keep you out of danger…"

Mr. Anderson grunts, "Well I suppose that's fine then, as long as it doesn't make you a coward. I expect you to fight as hard as you can in that arena, you hear me?"

Blaine's eyes shine as he looks at his father and that desperate hope is still there, "I'll do my best to come home Dad, I promise."

Mr. Anderson snorts and raises his eyebrows looking mildly surprised, "Come home? I just don't want you to embarrass me in front of the whole country."

I can't stop my sharp intake of breath. I despise Blaine's father, I have the lowest possible opinion of him, but even I didn't think he would say something so heartless to his own son.

Blaine's mouth is hanging open and he looks stunned, but I can see the profound hurt creeping into his eyes.

"This is a chance for you to finally make me proud of you, Blaine. Don't mess it up."

A strangled noise that may be a sob escapes from Blaine. I've had enough.

"Mr. Anderson, I think you should leave."

"What!" He spits and glowers at me like I have no right to speak to him, let alone ask him to do something.

"Maybe Kurt's right, honey. Why don't we go." Blaine's mother interjects hurriedly. She plants a kiss on Blaine's forehead and wraps him in a lingering hug. "I love you Blaine, I'll be cheering for you!"

She dabs quickly at her eyes then guides her husband out of the room. Mr. Anderson leaves without another word to his son.

For a minute, the room is consumed in heavy silence.

Blaine sags into my side as if staying upright is suddenly too difficult to bother with.

"I'm sorry I sent them away like that, I could go make them come back." I say finally, feeling a little bad about my haste.

Blaine shakes his head rapidly, "No, don't be sorry. If they'd have stayed my dad would have just found more ways to tell me what a failure he thinks I am." He hangs his head and doesn't seem to want to meet my eye.

Something in my chest physically hurts as I watch Blaine pick morosely at his sleeve. He looks so utterly crushed.

I gently cup Blaine's face with both hands and raise it so that he has to look at me. I rub my thumbs lightly over his cheek bones and try to pour all the adoration I feel for him into my voice as I murmur, "I just wish your dad could see how amazing you are. There is so much to be proud of you for Blaine, I'm proud of you everyday."

The look he gives me is so full of genuine gratitude that I can't help but kiss him.

When I pull away Blaine looks slightly less downtrodden and as he leans his head against my shoulder he murmurs, "At least I have you."

"And you always will." I press a kiss to his temple.

It's moments like this that my heart aches because no matter how hard I try to be everything Blaine needs, I can't exactly be his father figure.

The door opens again and my heart leaps when I see that it's my family.

"Hey guys." Finn grins as they walk in.

Carole is immediately seated on Blaine's other side. Her warm, motherly arms squeeze him as she gives him a loud kiss on the cheek. Blaine hugs back with enthusiasm that is only slightly tinged with desperation.

There is a heavy pressure on my shoulder as I watch them and I hear my dad speak only loud enough for me to hear, "You guys doing alright, kiddo?"

I look up at my dad's face and see that it looks haggard and heavy with the same weariness it wore last time we were in this room.

I steal a quick glance at Blaine who is listening appreciatively as Carole lists off everything he has going for him. I don't think he'll mind if I get up for a minute. I turn back to my dad and gesture to the area by the door, "Could we talk over there for a minute?" My dad nods and I get up and walk to where we'd be less likely to be over heard.

"What's going on, Kurt?"

I relate to my father the whole incident with the Andersons. With each word the crease in his brow becomes more pronounced.

"That's not right," he mumbles then pats me on the back. "Thanks for telling me, kid."

When we get back to the couch Finn has taken my spot and is excitedly telling Blaine that he should "totally learn throwing stars because they look super awesome." I cringe because the comment is a bit insensitive but Blaine just chuckles and says he'll try them out.

The couch is full between the three of them so my dad takes a padded arm chair. I quickly tug a confused Blaine out of his seat, sit down where he just was, and pull him back down onto my lap. Blaine needs all the physical affection he can get while he still has the chance.

Finn continues right on with his babbling, "And then when you get back you can teach me how to be super good at throwing knives, because Kurt won't teach me."

"For good reason," I smirk, resting my chin on Blaine's shoulder.

My dad clears his throat and the four of us on the couch look up. "So," he begins, and from the way his jaw is set I can tell he's gearing up for a serious talk, "before they make us leave I want to tell you some things, Blaine."

Blaine shifts nervously in my lap. I know he adores my dad but for some reason he still gets anxious every time my dad gets too stern or serious.

"I have to say, you are one of the best things to happen to our little family. I've never seen Kurt as happy as he is when he's with you. And after the Games last year, well, you really helped him to find his feet again." He pulls off his cap and scratches absently at his head.

"You're a great kid, I hope you know that. You're smart, and kind, and damn good at so many things."

Blaine's cheeks color and he smiles bashfully.

"And I want you to know I think of you as a son."

Blaine's eyes light up and he's staring at my dad like he's never seen something so amazing.

"And no matter what you do in that arena, no matter what happens, I'm proud of you kid. And I love you, and nothing's going to change that."

Blaine nods, completely dumbfounded. My father stands, I gently push Blaine out of my lap, and he stumbles forward and into one of my dad's all encompassing hugs. My heart swells at the sight.

After a few minutes the rest of us pile on, and that's how the Peacekeepers find us when they come to take Blaine to the train station.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hey beautiful readers! Did everyone enjoy the HG movie! I sure did :D Well here's the next chapter. Expect #4 in about 4 days. Thanks for reading and if you would like to leave a review I really appreciate it!

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or _The Hunger Games_.

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><p>Blaine and I have to ride in separate cars on the way to the train station. It is general protocol for tributes to ride alone and I don't have the power to change that.<p>

Camera men crawl over the train station like ants over a neglected hunk of bread. I try my best to hide the way my hands are shaking and to look both disinterested and dignified, an expression which I think I pull off well. A couple of reporters call out my name, but I dismiss them with a flick of my wrist and board the train.

As soon as I get to my chamber, I shut the blinds to block out the chaos of the station. I take a few shuddering breaths. Today has been an unrelenting onslaught of misfortune and all the heavy emotion that comes with it. I desperately need a moment to calm down and get myself oriented again.

I eye the dresser across from my bed. It is no doubt full of brand new cloths; the Capitol doesn't want their victors to look like, well, like they belong to the Districts. Nothing clears my head and relaxes me like mixing and matching outfits, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to pull open those drawers and drown my troubles in the mix of expensive fabrics and rich colors, but I feel kind of disgusting.

Dinner isn't for over an hour and I won't be allowed to see Blaine until then, so I might as well take a shower.

My chamber is equipped with a full shower that runs both hot and cold water. Even living in victor village I'm lucky if I can get my shower above lukewarm. Still, heated water in itself is a luxury I am immensely grateful for. I grew up in the Seam, any warm water we wanted had to be heated in my mother's heavy iron kettle.

The heated water feels amazing as it warms my skin and trails down my body in crystalline rivulets. Living in District 12 I'm accustomed to the constant feel of coal dust on my skin, I haven't felt properly clean since last time I was being ushered around by Capitol trains for my tour.

A large part of me hates that I enjoy all the luxuries that come from the Capitol and that I get to enjoy because I am a victor of the Hunger Games. But if I want to make it through the coming weeks I'm going to have to cling to the smallest pleasures and comforts, no matter where those comforts come from.

With the grime, some of the thought-hindering chaos that has been convoluting my mind washes away. The water sooths my jittery shaking, however, it is not enough to relax the tension in my shoulders.

Now that my mind is clearer I realize just how many decisions there are to make. I set my jaw and steel my mind. Each choice I make could dictate whether Blaine lives or dies. It's overwhelming. I take a big breath and shove the small voice panicking in the back of my head into a sound proof box for the duration of the Games. First decision: I will keep my head so that I can do everything in my power to help Blaine survive this.

Secondly, I have to decide how much I want the media to know about my relationship with Blaine. During my time as a tribute it was never confirmed that I was gay, although I'm sure many people assumed. I did try to steer clear of the topic of love interests in any of my interviews, it's not that I'm ashamed to be gay. I've just run into enough homophobes in my life to know that the general public discovering that I play for team gay would have hurt me in the Games. And when my fate is in the hands of such people, I'm willing to hide a part of myself that I wouldn't under any other circumstances.

Blaine will have to do the same, keeping his sexuality a secret from the Capitol is in the best interest of his survival.

I pump some honey scented soap into the palm of my hand and lather it across my body.

Hiding our relationship means refraining even from casual touching in public or anywhere there might be cameras. Blaine won't like that, but I think that right now Blaine's long term survival is more important than his short term happiness.

I run a hand through my hair, feeling all the Capitol made product washing out of it.

Of course, it would be cruel to both of us to suppress the urge to be close when in more limited company, especially during a time when we will need as much comfort as possible. Effie will find out, I'll have to ask her not to spread any rumors around. I'm pretty sure Haymitch already knows, although if his earlier drunken greeting is any indication, he probably also thinks Blaine is straight and I'm his girlfriend…

I watch the last few clusters of bubbles swirl down the drain and shut off the water. I towel myself dry and step out of the shower. Something in the hot water or steamy air must have strengthened some secret part of me, because although I'm still scared to death I feel much more able to handle what lies ahead.

The dresser is practically begging me to rummage through it so I give in. I allow myself a few minutes of getting mindlessly lost in examining of dozens of new shirts. I pick out a rather simple outfit consisting of tight black pants, knee high boots, and a silver button down with a subtle shimmer to it. The outfit would be considered outlandish in District 12 but extremely drab in the Capitol.

I take a few minutes to fix my hair until it is finally diner time and I quit my chamber.

When I get to our dinning car, Effie, Sarah, and Blaine are already waiting for me at the long table set with delicate china dishes. The chair across from Blaine is empty and I take it gracefully. Blaine gives me a tight lipped smile. He's changed into a soft looking red sweater and a simple pair of denim trousers. He hasn't put as much care into his outfit as he usually does.

"So glad you've joined us, Kurt," Effie beams. "Have you seen Haymitch?"

"No, but I don't think it's likely he'll be coming to diner."

Effie makes a small, disappointed noise, but looks far too happy about the news for it to be sincere.

Under the cover of the table I nudge my foot against Blaine's. His eyes meet mine and he slips his foot out of his shoe to rub his sock clad toes in steady circles around my ankle.

Just then, avoxes bring out the first course. The meal is as elaborate and delicious as it was last year. We start with a spinach salad tossed with vinaigrette and sprinkled with dried fruit, then a bowl of creamy broccoli soup. Next the avoxes present us with tureens of pasta shells stuffed with soft white cheese and aromatic herbs, then succulent glazed chicken breasts on a bed of potatoes. The meal is finished off with long thin cookies drizzled with chocolate and caramel.

Blaine's eyes get bigger and bigger with every course and somehow he manages to keep ingesting more and more food. I know he's going to regret it but that's one lesson he'll have to learn for himself.

Blaine has always been financially secure enough that he has never been gripped by the acute hunger that children raised in the Seam often experience, but his stomach in not used to such rich fair and it isn't going to be happy.

During the meal there is constant chitchat about nothing important. Mostly Effie rattles on about the different luxuries of the Capitol and what Blaine and Sarah will get to see there. Blaine listens politely and asks appropriate questions at all the right times. I can tell Effie is delighted with him.

Sarah, on the other hand, Effie keeps shooting reproving looks as the girl shovels as much food as possible into her mouth. I don't blame Sarah. This meal alone is probably more than her whole family eats in the average month.

The dishes are cleared and we troop out of the dining car to watch recaps of the reapings in another compartment.

Blaine and I sit next to each other on the long, curved sofa that spans the width of the compartment, and Blaine automatically curls into my side.

"Feeling alright?" I ask because he looks a little queasy.

"Yeah," he mumbles, "just think I ate too much."

I chuckle softly and ruffle his hair.

I look up and find Effie starting at us in alarm. Her lips purse with disapproval. I wave her off, hoping that she understands that I mean I'll talk to her about it later. With a small humph she turns back to the screen.

The reapings begin and we watch with rapt interest as we see the competition Blaine and Sarah will be facing this year. The tributes don't seem all that different from any other year. The ones from Districts 1 and 2 are athletic and muscular Careers who have most likely been training for this moment for years. The tributes from District 3 look harmless physically, but there's a sharp intelligence in their eyes that makes me wary. However, it is the male tribute from District 4 that gives me real pause. He's lean and tall, less muscular than the tributes from 1 and 2 but more agile looking. He's also undeniably handsome, with carelessly upswept hair and attractive features. But it's the look of smug self-assuredness that makes me internally quiver in fear. I can just tell he thinks he's the next victor, and from the look of him I wouldn't be all that surprised if he was.

We are watching the reaping for District 6 when Blaine tugs on my sleeve and nods to the other side of the couch. On it Sarah is huddled, rocking unsteadily back and forth, her arms wrapped so tightly around herself that it wouldn't be surprising if she was losing circulation.

I look back at Blaine's questioning, slightly plaintive expression and nod. He sits, untangling himself from me and calls out to her, "Hey Sarah, do you wanna come sit with us?"

Sarah turns her surprised, red rimmed eyes on us. She looks like a hunted animal.

"Come on," Blaine urges.

Sarah hesitates for a moment longer than she stands and makes her way tentatively forward. Blaine slides so that there is a place for her between us and he gestures for her to sit. She does, albeit stiffly.

Blaine scoots close to her and starts a running stream of commentary, touching only on light topics like the escorts' clothing choices or what the weather must be like in different districts. Soon Sarah has all but melted into his side and is letting me braid her hair.

When District 12 finally begins to play I realize that Sarah has fallen asleep. I tuck one last braid into the elaborate bun I've created on the top of her head and focus my full attention on the screen.

It's probably good Sarah isn't awake to see her part of the reaping. Watching Sarah walk up to the stage makes my heart sink. She looks so defeated. The television might as well be flashing the words easy target.

Blaine on the other hand looks as fiercely handsome as I could hope. He makes a striking figure on television and I think he looks like a definite contender.

"Oh Blaine! You look so handsome and positively breath taking!" Effie gushes. "Just think how good you'll look once the stylists are done with you!"

A brief clip of footage from the train station is shown and I have to fight against the urge to frown. Blaine's eyes are red and puffy in the shot and, although he walks with the same determined confidence as before, its impossible to deny that he's been crying. I hope people don't focus too much on it, after all his first impression was spectacular.

The last recap ends and we are left staring at a blank screen. Effie excuses herself and hurries away. I look down at Sarah who is now slumped against me and snoring softly. "Should we wake her up?" I ask.

Blaine shakes his head, "No, I'll carry her back to her room."

Sarah is so thin that Blaine has no trouble scooping the fourteen-year-old girl into his arms and getting to his feet. He pauses at the door, bites his lip, and looks over his shoulder at me. "Will I be allowed to sleep in your room tonight?" There is anxiety lacing his tone.

"Yeah, I'll meet you there."

I watch Blaine trundle off down the corridor before returning to my own chambers.

It's been a long day and as much as I love nice clothes I'm starting to feel suffocated. I have just slipped into a pair of light blue silk pajama pants when there's a knock on the door. "Come in!" I call.

"Oh, I'm sorry," The voice is not Blaine's like I expected, it is much higher and sounds much more surprised to find me shirtless. I turn around quickly, slipping into the pajama top as I do so.

"Expecting someone else?" Effie asks one eyebrow delicately arched with a hint of disdain as she steps into the room.

"Yes, ac – "

"We need to talk." I can't tell if her tone is disapproving or concerned. I gesture toward her, giving her my permission to continue, it's best she gets everything out now. "Kurt, you know I love a good scandal as much as the next girl, but I can't stand for you using your influence as a mentor to seduce a tribute!"

Is she that dumb? I stare at Effie with my jaw hanging open in suprise, unable to find the words to tell her how imbecilic she is.

"Have you thought of how it will affect his chances of winning, _our _chances of winning if you leave him heartbroken? Another District 12 victory is on the line and I will not let you mess that up. I don't know what you've told him but I will not stand for black mail or you pressuring him into this."

I have to snort at that because really? Black mail and the abuse of power are the cornerstones of the Capitol's moral code.

Effie must have taken my snort as an admission of guilt because she gives a look full of condescending disappointment and shakes her head sadly. "And after all you said to me this morning, I can't believe you of all people would use a tribute this way."

"Kurt's not using me." An amused voice says from behind us.

I spin around to find Blaine changed into pajamas and looking mildly entertained as he watches us from the door.

"Oh honey," Effie says in a sweet voice so patronizing that I could slap her, "I'm so sorry, I'm sure Kurt didn't mean to hurt you. I know about these types of things, I've seen this situation about a million times in movies. Sometimes when people acquire power it goes to their head and they—"

"Effie! Stop the tirade!" I cry in exasperation, "I'm not using Blaine, I'm not seducing him! He's my boyfriend, we have been together since before _I_was in the games."

Blaine steps up next to me and wraps an arm around my waist as if to second everything I just said.

Effie looks momentarily confused her manicured eyebrows disappearing under the fringe of her wig. But then, rather than her expression changing to relief as I expect, it turns to appalled delight. "Oh how tragic! What ill fated lovers!"

Blaine and I exchange a dismayed glance; Effie takes far too much delight in our misfortune.

"Effie," I recall her to her senses, "you can't tell anyone." I feel Blaine's gaze shift to my face and study my expression quizzically. "The public finding out Blaine is gay isn't going to do him any favors when it comes to sponsors."

"Ooo, I don't think that's true. If you—"

"Effie," I say firmly and she obediently falls quiet, "My goal is to get Blaine out of that arena alive, not to provide the Capitol with entertaining scandals or fodder for their sick fantasies.

"No one will find out," I articulate each word with as much force as I can, "Right?"

Effie chews at her painted bottom lip looking from Blaine to me. "Fine," she finally relents, "your secret's safe with me." And without so much as another word she turns heel and flounces out of the room.

"I can't tell if that was purely out of concern for her job or it she was actually concerned about you," I sigh tiredly, leaning into Blaine's side, "But either way Effie Trinket is still at the top of my list of people I want to smother with their own wig.

Blaine snorts in amusement, "That's can't be a very long list."

"Oh, you'd be surprised," I sigh with partially feigned weariness.

Blaine laughs, but it sounds unconvincing, and when he turns to me his face it serious and his eyebrows are furrowed they way they always are when he's troubled. "So, you want us to go back into the closet?" He doesn't sound accusing, just puzzled. There is some other emotion there too and I really hope it isn't disappointed but it sounds frighteningly like it.

I sigh again and drop onto the edge of the bed. "Not completely, I mean there's no way we can hide our sexuality from people in District 12 at this point. But I think we should to the general public, especially to the gossiping narrow minded imbeciles in the Capitol who would be less inclined to sponsor you if they found out you're gay."

Blaine looks saddened by my words but he doesn't say anything.

"And it's more complicated than that, you heard what Effie thought. We can't let people think that you are gullible or easily susceptible to other people's tricks or that I'm some sleazy mentor who can't be trusted."

I stare up at Blaine with pleading eyes, hoping he realizes that this isn't what I want, but then again none of this is what I want. Blaine exhales resignedly and sits heavily next to me, "This sucks."

Suddenly he's laughing. He's clutching his side and actually laughing, but it's not the natural chuckles or giggles I'm used to but a near manic cackle that makes my skin crawl.

"Blaine!" I cry in alarm as he teeters backward and ends up writhing on the bed.

"It's just—," laughter seizes him again and he can't get another word out, "it's such—" he dissolves into another fit of giggles.

"Such a what? Such a what, Blaine!" I ask frantically. I kneel next to his head, my hands fluttering uselessly in front of me.

Has he really cracked so soon? Sane people don't laugh hysterically at random moments…

"Such an understatement." He finally gasps and relaxes limply into the bed, the last few chuckled making his chest raise and fall sporadically.

I breath in relief, he's not crazy, that was a huge understatement. Spilling coffee or bad weather sucks. Getting chosen for the Hunger Games and subsequently having to act like you hardly know the person you are in love with is a whole other level of horrible.

I collapse back onto the bed and Blaine is cuddled up to me in an instant. "Cuddle with me, Kurt," he whines, picking up my arm and draping it over him.

"Alright, alright," I sigh with mock annoyance and kiss him lightly on the nose, "but let's get under the covers first."

Blaine nods and hurries to get under the blankets. As soon as I've slipped in beside him he reaches out and yanks me closer to him.

He lays his head on my chest and we're still. I try to push everything out of my head and just enjoy this moment of being next to Blaine and feeling his body next to mine.

"I love listening to your heart beat." Blaine's whisper breaks the silence.

"Oh, do you?" I try to sound teasing but my voice sounds delicate in my own ears.

Blaine hums, "It's comforting." His voice becomes so quiet that I can hardly hear it yet I hang on to every heartfelt word, "It reminds me that you're alive. God Kurt," he chokes, "I was so afraid I was going to lose you in the Games last year."

All I can manage is a fragile whisper, "But you didn't…"

"I know."

He trails off and I know what he's thinking about because I'm thinking about it too. What if I lose Blaine in the Games this year? We haven't talked about it yet, and I'm not going to bring it up unless Blaine does.

"I love you Kurt," Blaine breaths, his voice shaking.

"I love you too Blaine."

I listen to see if he's crying but his breathing sounds steady and the comforting rhythm lulls me to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**So our boys are finally to the Capitol!**

**I hope ya'll enjoy the chapter!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or The Hunger Games.**

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><p>I feel Blaine's warm body pressed into mine between the sheets. Part of me wants to sigh contentedly and snuggle deeper into Blaine's warmth for another hour of sleep, but there is another, more obnoxious, part of my brain that is demanding that I wake up and remember something important.<p>

_Blaine's a tribute._

I squeeze my eyes tighter against the renewed awareness, as if I could block it out of reality. I can't.

I press closer into the embrace of the boy next to me. I know I have to get up soon. We will arrive in the Capitol in a few hours and I need to be prepared. I need to do my job: to make sure Blaine gets out of that arena alive.

I let a few minutes pass with the rocking of the train and our gentle breathing, then, with a regretful exhale, I begin to roll out of Blaine's grasp.

I try to be careful, but either I'm not as sneaky as I think or Blaine is hyper aware of my movements, because I don't even sit up properly before his dark eye lashes flutter and I'm fixed with his golden green gaze.

"Wherugoin?" He mumbles into the pillow.

I lean down to place a soft kiss on his temple and nuzzle into the little tuft of curly hair that rests there. "I'm just taking a shower."

"Don't leave me." His arm tightens around my waist, and I feel myself being dragged back into the dangerously tempting warmth of his embrace.

"I'm just goin—"

"No."

"Do you want to come with me?"

He sits up so quickly that I have to muffle a laugh because his grogginess has transformed into sudden eager wakefulness.

There's a scrabble of limbs, haphazardly tossed blankets, and the thump of bare feet on the carpeted floor as Blaine pushes me off the bed and all but carries me to the shower.

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><p>A little over half an hour later, I follow Blaine into the train car where we ate dinner last night. A few last beads of moisture cling to the nape of his neck and I can't help but watch as one rolls down his skin to soak into the collar of the red sweater he wore yesterday.<p>

Effie, Sarah, and to my surprise, Haymitch, are already positioned around the table. Blaine and I take the last two seats and as we do plates heaping with eggs, bacon, potatoes, and stacks of pancakes are placed before us.

Blaine gapes at his plate at a loss for where to start. I can tell that, even after dinner last night, he hasn't become accustomed to the pure excess of food.

I pick a dark brown roll from the basket at the center of the table and spread it with a sticky pink jam that I assume is made with some type of berry. The sweet tanginess is delicious and I wash down the first bite with a sip of orange juice and a bite of eggs.

I glance over at Blaine. He's drizzling copious amounts of amber colored syrup over his pancakes with one hand and holding his mug of coffee to his lips with the other. There's already a noticeable dent in his mound of eggs. As he sets down the syrup pitcher his eyes alight on a plate of pastries before him.

"What's that?" he asks me, pointing to a sugar glazed, spiral shaped roll.

"Cinnamon roll." I say, as I ladle little spheres of fruit onto my plate.

At the word cinnamon his eyes light up, Blaine loves cinnamon. It's somewhat of a rarity in District 12 and hard to come by even for a family as decently well off as Blaine's

His pancakes momentarily forgotten, Blaine reaches for a roll. Sheer wonder spreads across his face after the first bite. He spends the next few minutes wholly engrossed in the new treat and paying attention to nothing else, except for when he glances over to smile at me with crinkly eyes.

Eventually we've eaten our fill and drained our cups of coffee, or in Blaine's case his coffee, orange juice and hot chocolate. Haymitch clears his throat.

"Alright, I think we need to have a little talk," he says mostly coherently. He seems decently sober, but I know he's been nursing his little silver flask in between mouthfuls of bacon. "So when we stop, you guys are gonna be given to your Stylists."

I forgot about the Stylists. I feel my spine stiffen and my fists clench. I don't like stylists.

"You may not like what they do."

Those words hold so much truth that I almost laugh sardonically.

"But you can't complain, just go along, don't make a fuss."

I look over at Blaine who's nodding seriously and something flips nervously in my stomach. I hope against hope that Gaius, my pea-brained, tasteless, nudity loving Stylist from last year has suddenly discovered that he is very much allergic to fashion.

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><p>I am in a brightly lit room filled with other mentors, escorts in ridiculous colored wigs, and far too many tables of food.<p>

As soon as the train stopped Blaine was whisked off to the Remake Center by a squad of Peacekeepers, and I was hustled into a separate car with Haymitch and Effie to be driven to the traditional welcome reception.

I've sat here for over an hour already, trying not to look disgusted by the variety of horrendous tattoos and outfits on the escorts or the wholly unnecessary amount of food provided. I have to breathe deeply to sedate the panic that keeps fluttering in the pit of my stomach.

I don't like being separated from Blaine, and I don't like the thought of him being left to the devices of Gaius to clothe and "remake" as Gaius wishes. There has to be some way I can skip out of this and get to Blaine.

I slump into my chair, trying to become inconspicuous so that the sequin bedazzled escorts don't spot me. Luckily my seat it blocked from the general sight of the room by the god-awful spray of artificially colored turquois and bubblegum pink flowers on the table in front of me.

I really do not want to be dragged into a conversation with any of the other mentors. I look from one vaguely familiar face to the other. I recognize most of the mentors from last year but I don't think I could name more than half of them. All of them are smiling widely but there is a disconnect behind some of their beaming faces and a vagueness behind certain pairs of eyes that makes me wonder if I'm not the only mentor who hates being in the Capitol.

There's an extremely tall, dark skinned man with a heavy brow and only one hand that gazes around the room with solemn eyes and smiles tensely when anyone speaks to him. Eventually, he finds Haymitch and something like relief tugs up the corner of his mouth into an expression that's less solemn but still not happy.

Of course, some mentors seem delighted to be here. A tall broad shouldered mentor from District 1 is chuckling conspiratorially with the female mentor from District 2. They both look to be in about their forties, but have the distinct air of people who still think they have the body of a twenty year old. His fitted suit that clings too tightly to his girthy stomach and her tasteless plunging neck line would look better on one of the younger mentors. However, their questionable fashion choices don't bother me as much as their smiles which are far too genuinely enthusiastic to belong at the Hunger Games.

My eyes are pulled away from the couple, by a loud laugh from the other side of the room. I look curiously toward the sound and find myself staring straight at Finnick Odair.

Finnick Odair was my first and only celebrity crush. He has golden hair that looks like the sun is glinting off it even in doors, tanned flawless skin, long muscular limbs, and a smile so charming that even now I feel my heart stutter. In all my time in the Capitol last year I had never been this close to Finnick. Why is it suddenly so hard to breath?

He's talking to an old, bent backed woman in dripping in long crocheted shawls that almost make it look as if she is draped in fishing nets. Suddenly, as if feeling my eyes on him and his companion, Finnick looks. Fixing me with those stormy eyes, he winks.

A furious blush heats my cheeks, but even so, it takes a gargantuan effort to look away from those beautiful blue-green-grey eyes and sink further behind my center piece. Now there's a story to brag about to Blaine, Finnick Odair winked at _me_.

Before I can decide if I feel completely mortified or triumphant, an escort with a shaved head and a head dress of gaudy rainbow colored plumes taps on her crystal goblet with the back of a spoon and the room falls quiet to listen to the official welcome.

It's another hour before we're released to settle into our quarters in the Training Center. We don't have anything to do before the opening ceremonies except meet with our own stylists and most of the mentors look pleased to be able to get some down time.

I take my opportunity. It's easy enough to give Effie the slip; she's completely preoccupied with keeping an again very drunk Haymitch upright. I quickly dodge through the still chattering attendees and no one sees me slip through the door to the stairwell.

I only have to go down one flight before I find myself in front of a door emblazoned with a large black number twelve. I push through and find the door that conceals Blaine staring at me from the other end of a long concrete hallway.

I let my legs carry me swiftly, but I fight the urge to full out run because I need a moment to think. I know Gaius from last year. I know how stubborn he is. He's going to throw a fit if I try to change his design. But I can't sit back and do nothing if he tries to put Blaine out there in nothing but coal dust.

My mind sweeps me back to last year and suddenly I have the excruciatingly uncomfortable feeling that thousands of eyes are fixed on me. I'm completely exposed. Only grimy dust covers my body. Ore next to me is curling on herself, trying to cover her body without looking weak. I can't move. All of Panem is watching. Laughter breaks out as we pass by. Capitol citizens never take it seriously when a stylist puts their tribute out their naked. It's not until after I won that they decided Gaius was some sort of genius.

Gaius. Blaine. I push myself to walk faster.

Stylists generally function on the level of cold, overconfident bitch. I'm pretty sure that's the only way Gaius will listen to me. It's a good thing overconfident bitch is my specialty.

With a final deep breath and a second to compose my face into a condescending glare I throw open the door.

There's Blaine stark naked, being examined by a man who is definitely not Gaius.

Gaius had waist length golden hair, and had replaced his eyebrows with arches of blue and purple gem stones. He was about half my height but had a love for foot tall metallic green boots.

The man in front of me could not be more different. He's tall and lean with neat brown hair. His body if free of unfortunate alterations. His cheek bones are high and proud and his eyes flash with lively green fire. It takes me a second to realize they stand out so clearly because they are highlighted with thin lines of gold.

I make a split second decision and suspend my derision for a moment until I can feel out this new stylist. Instead I smile with sickening sweetness. As he fixes me with a confused stare I ask, "Um, excuse me, where's Gaius?"

"He's been moved to District 4."

"What, after his success last year they moved him to a more popular district?" I can't keep my lips from spitting the words bitterly. Well so much for sweetness.

"Kurt Hummel? I didn't recognize you at first—"

"Because last time you saw me I was half my weight and killing other children on national television?" The bitterness doesn't seem to want to go away so I might as well work with it.

Something akin to sadness flashes across the stylist's face but I've chosen my attack and I'm not about to let some hot shot Capitol stylist with a knack for faking pity make me back down.

"You must be Blaine's mentor. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Actually you can leave. I'm taking over Blaine's styling."

The stylist looks confused but not affronted. He looks from me to Blaine then seeing that Blaine's still naked reaches for the robe.

"Don't bother," I snap, "it's nothing I haven't seen before."

That was not what I meant to say.

No one else was supposed to know.

Something changes in the stylist and suddenly his green eyes are hard and his shoulders stiffen under his tailored suit. "Kurt I think you should leave."

"Wait!"

I turn in surprise to Blaine who had been watching the exchange quietly. "Cinna, can Kurt stay?" he asks the stylist in an earnestly pleading voice. "And Kurt I don't think he's as bad as Gaius maybe we should give him a chance."

The stylist, Cinna, looks between us, shoulders still stiff.

I look past him to fix my eyes on Blaine who looks so strangely innocent standing there nude, stripped of anything to hide behind. The choking urge to protect him rises in my throat but around it I manage to say, "Don't worry honey, I'm not going to let him send you out there naked, I'm sick of these stylists thinking they can do whatever they want to their tributes."

I side step Cinna so that I can get to Blaine. He reaches out a hand and I take it. I open my mouth to continue the stream of assurances, but Blaine leans his forehead onto mine and presses a finger to my lips.

"Kurt, it's alright. Give Cinna a chance. He's not like Gaius. He seems nice."

I want to protest. Sometimes Blaine is too trusting of people. But I have to let it go because I trust _Blaine_ and if he tells me to let something be I will.

"Would you feel better if you saw my designs?"

I turn around in surprise. Cinna's studying us carefully, his brow furrowed and his eyes almost piercing in their scrutiny. He doesn't look angry any more, His shoulders are relaxed.

"I'll even give you veto rights."

My jaw hangs open at his sudden surrender, but I quickly school my face into an expression more impassive and aloof. "Alright." I nod curtly and Cinna smiles.

"Blaine why don't you put that robe on and the three of us can talk while we eat lunch."

Blaine does as he's asked and we follow Cinna into an adjoining room.

We sit around a small round table and Cinna presses a button. A panel in the table slides away and lunch rises up through it, a whole roasted chicken, and pot of creamy potatoes, a assortment of green vegetables, and a small chocolate cake.

"I wasn't expecting there to be three of us. I can order you another plate Kurt."

"That won't be necessary," I say digging Blaine's spoon into the mound of potatoes he's already heaped on his plate while he attacks a hunk of chicken with his knife and fork.

Cinna just nods and we eat in silence for a moment.

"So how long have you been together?"

"Almost three years." Blaine answers. When he smiles at me I notice he has a bit of mashed potato on the corner of his mouth.

Cinna nods thoughtfully at his forkful of food. "I figured as much."

"Excuse me?"

Cinna tears his gaze away from his food to meet my eyes, "To be quite honest Kurt, when you made the remark about Blaine and the robe I was worried." I mentally slap myself again and can feel a blush creeping across my cheeks. "This is my first year as a stylist but I'm no newcomer to the corruption of the Capitol

"Forgive me if I misjudged you, but it's not unheard of for mentors, and escorts even, to abuse their power, to manipulate their tributes into… sexual relationships. But then I saw you speaking to each other and there was so much tenderness and familiarity. I may be a romantic, an idealist, but I could see there was more between you than some twisted seduction."

Involuntarily, the corners of my eyes prick with tears. My cold exterior is crumbling. This man is more than I could have hoped to find in the Capitol. _He cares_. If not specifically about Blaine, he cares about tributes in general and that is something I never found in my time as a tribute.

I thank whatever twist of fate has made Cinna Blaine's stylist.

Cinna's eyes are fixed on me as if he's waiting for a reaction. I blink to clear the cloudiness from my eyes. "Thank you."

Cinna nods and allows a sad smile to spread across his face. Blaine looks between us in confusion. I just squeeze his hand.

"So," Cinna says, his tone business-like, "Who are you going to tell?"

Blaine shifts uncomfortably in his seat, "No one."

"No one?"

"I may have only first seen the capitol a year ago, but I know what they think of gay people here. I've seen the clubs and the magazines. I know how homosexuality is considered hot and intriguing but treated with no respect. Homosexuality is fetishized here and although exposing Blaine's sexuality may gain a few sponsors for that reason, it's going to lose him respect from other sponsors. Not to mention any sponsors he might get from the Districts."

"You do have a point, but I don't think you've considered all the possible positives, not everyone—"

"I have, and they don't outweigh the negatives. I'm sorry Cinna but Blaine and I aren't going public."

Cinna nods thoughtfully, "Well then, are you ready to see the designs?"

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><p>"Smile. Look like there is nowhere else on earth you'd rather be. Lots of sponsors like tributes that seem to be having fun. Don't worry about trying to look too fierce the outfit will do a lot of the work for you."<p>

Blaine swallows audibly and his shiny, product treated curls bounce as he nods jerkily. Cinna pats him on the shoulder and steps away to talk to Sarah and Portia.

We're waiting for the parade to start. All around us are other tributes decked out in district inspired costumes, stylists fussing over last minute touch ups, and impatiently pawing horses harnessed to the twelve chariots.

I glance from the nearby District 11 tributes robed in what looked clumps of asparagus and ears of corn to Blaine whose eyes are darting from one tribute to another.

"Too bad you got the only Stylist with no taste," I joke gently and nudge him with my shoulder.

Blaine blinks and looks at me with eyes a bit too wide that flit back to the other tributes too fast.

"You look amazing." I whisper, trying again to instill him with an extra bit of confidence.

Of course, I always think Blaine looks gorgeous, but in Cinna's design he has obtained a new level of dark intrigue. I have to concede that Blaine's stylist is a genius. I'm sorry I ever doubted his skill. He completely forsook the traditional District 12 miner's helmet. Instead he clothed Blaine is skintight charcoal pants with a heavy black belt and knee high boots that shine like obsidian. Blaine's loose fitting coal colored shirt is unbuttoned half way to reveal the smooth contours of his chest. It's also sleeveless, as if, in a fit of rage, Blaine torn them off himself. His untamed and wildly curly hair falls recklessly around his face and under his eyes the prep team smeared streaks of charcoal liner that make his golden irises smolder dangerously. He looks like some frightening creature of the night, fierce and sensual, threatening and lustful. It's a genius combination that was carefully constructed to play to the imagination of the Capitol. There's also a special effect that Cinna installed into the boots, but that won't come on until Blaine rides out in front of the crowds.

The veins on the back of Blaine's hands stand out against his olive skin, pushed out because his fists have been clenched tightly for the past twenty minutes. Making sure the angle of our bodies blocks us from the rest of the tributes, I gently loosen his fists and work my fingers into the spaces between his. "They're going to love you." I whisper and squeeze his hands.

He looks at me gratefully and I take it as a good sign that he's able to smile.

The tributes begin to clamber onto their chariots and so I have to let go of Blaine. Cinna lifts Sarah, in her charcoal and coal jumper and matching boots, onto the chariot next to Blaine and whispers a few last words of encouragement.

Suddenly, there is a hand on my elbow and a high girlish voice in my ear, "Come now, off to our seats, we don't want to miss the beginning of the ceremony!"

I let myself become docile as Effie pulls me away from the carriage but my eyes stay fixed on Blaine's and before I get lost in the crowd of other mentors I mouth "I love you."

Effie and I squeeze in beside Haymitch who is talking animatedly to the tall, broad shouldered District 11 mentor I saw at the reception. He looks over at me and nods in a way that seems to be kindly then turns his attention back to Haymitch.

A wave of applause fills the air and my attention snaps to the large doors on the bottom floor of the remake center which have slid open to emit the first chariot.

The tributes from District 1 are dazzling, their jewel encrusted evening wear capturing the light of the sun. The crowd roars in approval, whistling and cheering. It's all so loud and immediate and around me that I feel a little sick because no one seems to care that these kids are going to die. I swallow the bile in my throat and watch as the District 2 tributes with their bulky muscle and armor chic outfits roll onto the route.

The tributes from District 3 don't gain any ear splitting wolf whistles or breathless exclamations but roll by with a smattering of polite applause. However, as soon as District 4 emerges the crowd goes insane. People are jumping up and down, craning their necks to get a better look, and clapping hysterically. Loud shouts are accompanied by undercurrents of excited tittering and awed exclamations of "He's gorgeous".

Drinking in every cheer, his self-satisfied smirk blown up huge on every screen, the District 4 male tribute stands tall. Even I have to admit, he's gorgeous. He looks relaxed. He doesn't seem to mind the fact that the long lean lines of his body were completely exposed aside from the large sea shell positioned over his groin. Tanned expanses of skin stretch taunt over rippling muscle and despite the fact that I want to punch the look of pure arrogance off his face, I have to admit, he has looks to rival Finnick Odair.

That sinking feeling I felt on first seeing his footage from the District 4 reaping begins to weigh me down again. The obvious raptures of the crowd aren't helping me dismiss the horrible thought that this boy is going to win the games.

After District 4 the next few sets of tributes seem to be a letdown. The crowd claps sporadically but most of the excited comments I hear are still about the District 4 tribute. However, by the time District 8 rolls onto City Circle the speculation starts to turn to other tributes. A tittering lady in an electric blue wig a few rows behind me exclaims that the District 8 tributes look a bit smallish but like they've got fight in them. The dopey smile of the District 9 boy gains a few exclamations of "oh, I like him" and the District 10 girl she deems "the type that can kill with her eyes". The whole crowd seems to be impressed by the broad shoulders of the District 11 tributes and by the time they've passed by I'm hopeful that Blaine will make a big impression.

His chariot emerges from the shadowy recesses of the Remake Center and the crowd gasps because he and Sarah are smoking. Literally. The boots Cinna created are emitting delicate coils of smoke that swirl and dance around them. They are dark and mysterious but never obstructed by the smokey plumes. In his carelessly fierce outfit Blaine looks dangerous. There is something darkly ethereal about him as if some otherworldly creature has emerged from the midnight folds of the world and walks now among mortals. His brow is heavy and back straight as he glares around, daring any one to so much as look at him.

It's too much, the crowd is in awe. Their reaction isn't loud like it was with the District 4 tribute, rather a whispering hush sweeps around the onlookers as if they can't quite find the words.

The cameras center in on Blaine's face and his honey colored eyes smolder across the huge screens, dancing with their own fierce fire. Then after sweeping the whole crowd with a steely look Blaine lets the corners of his lips twitch upward, and he smiles. It's the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

He's no longer this perfect creature, incapable of flaw, but suddenly so human and judging by the way every audience member leans forward, that much more irresistible. Because here is someone beautiful, and sexy, and fierce, and vulnerable, and still so likeable. The audience is enthralled.

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><p><strong>AN: Yay Cinna! SO next up is a chapter from Blaine's POV (a rare occurence, but Kurt isnt privy to everything that there is to be told). Also it's my favorite pre-arena chapter so get excited.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

I feel like this happens every time, I say I'll update sooner then rl gets in the way and I can't. Welp here it is, the first Blaine P.O.V. chapter. It's pretty short but there will be more from Kurt's P.O.V. later in the week.

Thank you to all the wonderful people who have stuck with this is there are any of you left!

I own nothing!

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><p>I wake up to find myself enveloped in Kurt's warm arms, my face pressed into the soft skin of his neck. Fingers gently weave through my hair and massage my scalp. "Wake up sleepy. It's time to get ready."<p>

I open my eyes reluctantly and cuddle closer to Kurt to absorb a little bit more of his warmth before we start our day.

When we get out of the shower there are a simple green tunic and black pants waiting for me and a steel grey suit laid out for Kurt. I'm a bit weirded out that they know Kurt stayed here last night. I keep forgetting that in the Capitol they watch _everything_.

I steal a few kisses after we're dressed but all too soon, Kurt pulls away with a regretful sigh and we head to breakfast. I wish I could spend what might very well be my last few days alive just wrapped up in Kurt…

The breakfast spread is, of course, amazing. The side board is crammed with plates piled high with eggs and sausage, tureens of boiled vegetables, a large bowl of chopped fruit, a giant basket of warm rolls, and a bunch of other dishes I don't know the name for.

I load up a heaping plate and get myself a mug of coffee. Kurt only takes a roll and some fruit. I try to dish eggs onto his plate but pushes my hand away, "No thanks" he laughs affectionately, "I'm not the one who's preparing to go into the arena."

I eat with my left hand so that I can twine my fingers with Kurt's under the table. The number of meals I'll get to eat with Kurt are dwindling too quickly. No. I'm not supposed to think like that, Kurt and I will share plenty of meals when I get out of the arena…

When I'm half way through my eggs the other's show up.

"So Blaine," Effie chirps, alighting on a chair across the table, "are you excited to meet the other tributes." Kurt snorts into his coffee and rolls his eyes at her overly enthusiastic tone.

"Honestly, I'm really nervous, I—"

"Oh don't be! Training is perfectly safe. The experts will ensure no one gets hurt."

"Speaking of training," Heymitch grumbles, slathering a hunk of roll with sticky orange jam, "don't spread yourself too thin." He takes a bite of his breakfast than sips from his little silver flask.

"Yeah, try out a few weapons and find one or two you're good at," Kurt says, straightening up and assuming the role of mentor. He still holds my hand under the table. "Make sure you save time for the survival stations. It doesn't matter how many Careers you can skewer if you die from starvation."

"And make sure no one sees what you're best at," Heymitch huffs, "remember secrecy is an advantage."

They give Sarah her own list of things to do, most of which consist of specific survival techniques to learn.

"Oh, and both of you, don't get friendly with the other tributes. You can be polite," Kurt looks pointedly at me, "but you're not here to make friends. The other tributes will exploit any weakness they see."

I nod, Sarah gives a nervous little twitch of her head, and suddenly Effie is urging us out of our chairs and whisking us out of the room and into the elevator.

When the elevator doors slide open a little more than half the tributes are already waiting. The rest appear over the next few minutes.

Most of the boys are taller than me, even some of the ones that look younger. But as I gaze around and see the prevalence of hallow cheeks and sunken eyes I realize how privileged I've been. I bet most of these kids were lucky to get a full meal a day back in the districts. Even if my parents are only wealth by District 12 standards, I've never gone hungry.

Of course, the healthy body and meager muscle I am lucky enough to have is put to shame by the Careers. All six of them are large, trim, and beautiful. Muscles bulge under tight clinging fabric, and eyes narrow in threating evaluation as they look over their competition for the first time face to face.

Sarah trembles next to me and I have to fight the urge to put a comforting arm around her as an instructor gives a spiel about what exactly we're supposed to be doing and warns us not to spar with other tributes. Then we are set free.

I head straight for a station with a gleaming rack of assorted knives and a line of targets. The instructor is a steel haired woman with a heavy brow and a stern little dash of a mouth. She waits for two more tributes to join us before she begins, "Alright, the first thing you need to know about knife throwing is how to properly grip the knife."

She demonstrates on a long bladed knife then passes knives to each of us so that we can try it out ourselves.

"Very good," she says without smiling, "Now when I count to three I want each of you to throw your knife at your target and only at your target. Ready? One… Two… Three!"

There is a whistling of knives through the air, followed by some clattering and one satisfying thwack.

My knife is the only one to stay lodged in the target. It hit about half a foot off center, but it stuck. I have to bite back the triumphant smile curling the corner of my mouth. Maybe I'm not as bad at this as I thought.

The instructor collects the knives and we go again and again. I never miss the target and with each throw I get closer to my knife sinking dead center. Something proud and a little hopeful seems to be warming my chest and I wish Kurt were here to see.

I narrow my vision back to the target, zeroing in on the small red circle that marks the very center. The weight of the knife is now familiar in my palm. With one deft movement I heft it toward the target. It hits dead center.

A triumphant shout tears from my lips and I spin around beaming to see I any one just saw what I did. The few stony faces turned toward me remind me that no one here is going to pat me on the back for doing well. Well, at least now they know I could be dangerous.

I turn around quickly, trying not to look embarrassed. Before I face my target again my eyes catch those of the tribute from District 4. His expression isn't stony, his lips are twisted into something like a smirk. I try to ignore the uncomfortable prickling feeling his look gives me and go back to throwing knives.

For the next little while I experiment with knives of different weight and lengths. I don't know what type I'll be able to find in the arena. I remember what Heymitch said about not showing my strengths too much so I don't aim for the center anymore, I aim for different parts of the target. My knives find their mark every time.

After knife throwing I move on to a station lined with axes. There's a sprightly looking girl from District 7 spinning an axe as if it were a natural extension of her arm. She dismembers a dummy in seconds.

Axe wielding does not come as naturally to me. After almost removing my foot multiple times I decide that I am probably more of a danger to myself with an axe than any other tribute who might try to attack me with one, except maybe the girl from 7.

I switch from the axe to a wooden staff and spend the rest of the time until lunch learning techniques from one of the instructors.

True to the Capitol's style, lunch is more than generous. I chose a pasta and spinach salad smothered in green sauce and a warm sandwich stuffed with cheese, tomato, and some kind of thinly sliced white meat. I figure I'll try out the survival stations after lunch so I don't need to worry about stomach cramps.

The environment in the lunch room is uncomfortable. The tributes glance at each other then sit far enough apart that they don't have to talk. All except the Careers of course. They group around a table talking and laughing amicably as if to prove that they have nothing to worry about. As if this is a game that they have no doubts about winning.

I find Sarah sitting alone at a far table and sit across from her. She looks up gratefully and I feel a small flutter of warmth in my chest that is quickly doused by a sadness I can't bring myself to deal with yet.

Suddenly, A plate is set down so hard next to mine that one of my burgundy grapes rolls over the edge and goes skittering across the table. Startled, I look up. It's the Career tribute from District 4.

"So Blaine Anderson of District 12." He drawls in a low gravelly voice, "What do you think of training so far?"

"I—um what?"

"I believe I just asked you about training so far."

"Um good?"

Laughter flickers behind his stormy blue eyes and I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

"You seem to know how to handle a staff."

"Erm—thank you," I glance quickly over my shoulder, but no one is looking at us. "I'm sorry, I really don't mean to be rude, but why are you talking to me?"

"Just trying to be polite," he smiles disarmingly, "Just trying to make friends."

"Now really isn't the time to be making frie—"

"Well then what about an alliance?"

"Alliance?"

"Mhm, I'm good with knives, know my way around a bow, not to mention I have quite a bit of my own experience with swords and staves." He winks.

"But—"

"Of course," he picks up one of the thin oblong rolls and twirls it with his nimble fingers, "there are other things I could offer you." He parts his lips and pushes the whole roll into him mouth.

I feel my brow tugging together in confusion. I can't think of one good reason a Career would want to talk to me much less want to be my ally. Unless of course this boy is trying to pull one over on me, gain my trust so he can kill me easier. It would be a lot easier to think if he hadn't just deep throated that pastry. Now I can't get the image of Kurt's lips out of my head as they stretch around – now is not the time.

I snap myself back into the moment and realize I've been staring at the boy's mouth.

"So what do you think Blaine?"

"Why?" I blurt. It's the only question that makes any sense at the moment.

"Why?" he smirks, "because it looks like you've got some fight in you. And your innocent little 'I don't know what I'm doing' act, super hot. I wouldn't be opposed to one more fuck before the arena… or in the arena if you're into that."

I spray a mouthful of water onto the table, "Excuse me!"

Sarah, who has been watching us with wide eyes, suddenly attacks her food with alarming speed.

"I'm not—"

"Sure you are, and so am I. Don't worry Blaine, it'll be our little secret."

"Um, no. I'm sorry, but I have a boyfriend."

"Babe, you're in the Hunger Games, all bets are off."

"Still, no thank you."

"Alright, fine. So what about an alliance?" His lips curl in amusement and I have a sinking feeling that he isn't giving up.

"I'll have to think about it."

"Well think about it long and hard. I wouldn't mind having a hot piece of ass like you on my team."

He picks up his plate and goes to sit with the other Careers. I'm left struggling to dislodge the pasta that's stuck in my throat.

I finally clear my throat and gulp down what's left of my glass of water to try to get rid of the gross taste in my mouth. I keep my eyes on my food as my mind races. It occurs to me that I don't even know smirky tribute's name.

"Hey Sarah?"

She looks up at me with a piece of green melon skewered on her fork.

"What's that guy's name?"

"Sebastian Smyth."

The second half of training passes quickly. I throw myself into learning different varieties of edible and poisonous plants and by the end of an hour am pretty confident that I won't accidentally kill myself by eating the wrong thing.

I spend a bit of time learning knots, which I'm not half bad at, then snares which I fail miserably at. I just can't seem to get all the intricate little parts right. I figured if I'm good at knots I should be good at snares, but that's obviously not the case. I'm a little worried. With a Capitol meal still sitting heavy in my stomach I'm acutely aware that I'm almost incapable of catching my own food.

I tie a successful clove hitch around a metal pole and begin to work on the more intricate knots at the bottom of the snare. My fingers slip and I huff in frustration. I look up to give my eyes a break from glaring at the thin pieces of chord and for the second time today my eyes catch on Sebastian's.

He winks and stoops down, lifting a disk shaped weight as if it weighed nothing. In one graceful movement he spins, muscles shifting fluidly under the thin fabric of his shirt, and he hurls the weight across the room. A loud thwack followed by an echoing crash silence the training center.

Sebastian straightens, satisfied smirk in place as his eyes find mine. A barrage of instructors berates him in loud angry voices about the safety restrictions but he just rolls his head from side to side so that his vertebras release an audible pop-pop-pop.

That's when I realize that although Sebastian may only want an alliance in order to kill me, he is still a million times more dangerous as my enemy.

Sebastian waits until the eyes in the room return to their own training before he strides toward me with long confident steps.

He crowds in close to my shoulder, and pretends to peer down at my knot. His hot breath makes goose bumps on the back of my neck. "I hope you're still considering my offer."

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><p>AN: So what do you guys think of littlw Blaineypoo? As I'm getting into writing the arena stuff I'm trying to decide how much of it to have from each of the boy's perspectives. Any thoughts?

The next chapter will be up soon! (I pinkie promise)


	6. Chapter 6

Yay for having another chapter done without too long of a wait! This is another kinda short one. We're back to Kurt's perspective.

Thank you so so much for those of you that reviewed! It means a lot to me :)

Let me know what you think of this one!

I own nothing!

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><p>Haymitch and I wait in the dining room for the tributes to come back from their first day of training. It feels so wrong to call them 'the tributes'. They aren't just some stupid pawns in this game. No matter how objectified they are by the Capitol, they're still people. They are Blaine and Sarah… well when I remember Sarah. There is a heavy weight settling around my heart that warns me I haven't been remembering her often enough.<p>

To take my mind off of more serious things as the minutes trudge slowly by, I try to discern how drunk Haymitch is.

He's slumped in his chair, his eyelids drooping over blood shot eyes. Yet, when he reaches for his glass of what I hope is water and not clear liquor, his hand is sure and steady. I would consider him inebriated but functional.

Haymitch is constantly toing the line between tipsy and drunk, but he's still worlds better than he was last year. I honestly don't know how I got through the games when he spent most of my training passed out on the bathroom floor. He must have sobered up later when I started gaining popularity with the audience. That's when I started receiving the little silver parachutes. I coexist amicably enough with him now, but in the back of my mind there still festers resentment toward the man who gave up on me before he even saw what I could do.

The door swings open and Effie marches in followed by Blaine and Sarah. They look exhausted, especially next to Effie's bubbly energy.

Blaine plunks down in a chair and gives me a light kiss on the cheek before he is distracted by the plates of mutton, rice, green jelly, and fruit brought out by the Avoxes.

"So," I begin after tasting a few bites of my dinner, "how was training Sarah?"

The girl's gaze jerks up away from her food. The surprise in her wide eyes makes guilt coil tighter around my heart.

"It—um—it went well I guess."

"What did you learn?"

"Edible plants, and knots, and some camouflage stuff."

"You talk to any other tributes?" Haymitch grunts.

"Um—no." she fixes her eyes on her slab of mutton and shakes her head. "No," her eye flick quickly toward Blaine before she becomes suddenly very interested in her glass of ruby colored juice.

The way Blaine shifts uncomfortably in his seat doesn't escape me and the hair on the back of my neck prickles.

"And what about you Blaine, what did you learn?" Effie asks with her usual gossip mongering tone that she tries to play off as polite interest.

Blaine recounts his day, listing all the stations he went to and his successes and failures with the different weapons he tried. He speaks quickly and energetically, talking with his hands and nodding enthusiastically when we ask him questions. After nearly three years I can tell the difference between enthusiastic Blaine and performing Blaine in a matter of seconds. It's something in the tension at the corner of his eyes, the steadiness of his smile. Blaine is definitely hiding something.

"And who did _you _talk to Blaine?" I ask, keeping my voice level.

Blaine's eyes meet mine and they go wide, pleading with me, begging not to make him divulge whatever secret he's keeping. But this is the Hunger Games and anything that can have an impact on the outcome of the Games needs to be brought to the attention of the people helping Blaine survive.

"No one really," he splutters. I see Sarah peek up from her food and I wonder how much she knows. "Just a few friendly remarks to one or two—"

"You should tell them Blaine."

I don't think I have ever heard Sarah interrupt anyone. Blaine's smile falters.

"Well, at lunch I talked to Sebastian Smyth."

"Sebastian Smyth? District 4?" Effie asks.

Blaine nods.

"What did he say?"

"He was just being polite—"

"Blaine, Career tributes have no reason to be polite." Haymitch laughs darkly "What did he say?"

"Come on Blaine, don't hide it from us."

Blaine chews at his lips as if contemplating what to say, "He asked me to be his ally."

"What!"

"He asked me to—"

"No honey, I heard what you said, I'm just confused. Careers don't usually go out of their way to make nice with non-Careers."

"Actually," Haymitch says, leaning so far back in his chair that I'm afraid it might topple over, "this is a pretty common trick. A Career makes an alliance with another tribute they see as a threat. They build up fake trust so they can kill them easier. It's a risky plan, it back fires on them as often as not, but you still see it every few years.

"The good news then is that you must have made an impression, Blaine. This Sebastian character thinks you've got a fighting chance."

I study Blaine's face, he should look marginally more cheerful after Haymitch's last comment, but he won't meet my eye and I can't get his pleading expression out of my head.

"There's something else."

"No, that's it."

"Blaine Anderson you know I can see through your lies."

"Can I tell you in private?"

"Anything important enough to tell Kurt should be known to all of us."

Blaine sighs and an embarrassed flush spreads across his face. The protective instinct in me that has been going mad ever since Blaine was reaped rears its head. I have to tamp it down this time because we really do need to know what happened.

"Well, he-uh," Blaine splutters, "offered me other services and said that he'd like to have a nice piece of ass on his team." His ears turn violently red.

Effie gasps and brings a hand to her mouth, looking delightfully scandalized, Haymitch's brow hangs heavy over his eyes as if he's trying to puzzle through something unpleasant, and Sarah attacks her dinner with new fervor.

My hands clench into fists at my sides, "Blaine, you are not allying with him."

"I know! I know!" Blaine stutters, looking at me in alarm.

I must be less livid than he expected because his distress calms and he slumps against my shoulder. "I won't I promise." He whispers, exhaustion suddenly heavy in his words. "I won't, I won't, I won't."

Effie keeps the conversation light for the rest of dinner, contemplating what Cinna and Portia will whip up for Sarah and Blaine to wear for their interviews in a few days. For once I am truly grateful for her mind numbing babble. It helps distract me from images of the devastatingly handsome District 4 tribute leering at Blaine as he concocts a plan to kill him.

When we leave the dining room we don't mention Sebastian, but his presence hangs over us like a smirky, pinch faced specter. I trust Blaine, I really do. I trust him with my heart, my life, my everything, but a hint of jealously spurs the desperate way I kiss words into his skin. I feel with heightened acuteness, the shivers of pleasure when Blaine falls apart under my hands and moans _my _name.

The rest of the training days follow the same format as the first. Blaine and Sarah go to training after breakfast and come back at dinner to tell us about their progress and to share observations about other tributes. I come to realize that, although she may not be good at much, Sarah is very observant. She knows every tribute by name and can list off what the majority of them did at training.

On the third day, when we finish up dinner, we troop into a room with a television to watch the broadcast of the scores awarded from the private sessions earlier.

I have to say I'm nervous. Every element of the Games matters if you want to emerge alive, and getting a really low score can deter any and all sponsors.

I'm confident that Blaine did well in his private session. He told me he started by sinking knives into a dummy's heart, groin, and where both eyes would be from thirty feet away. Then he demonstrated the fighting techniques he'd learned with a wooden staff until he was dismissed. I think he'll get a good score. Hell, I pulled a seven by demonstrating some basic agility, climbing, and twirling sai swords.

We settle down on the half circle of couches to watch. Blaine and I immediately snuggle in the middle. Sarah is the last person standing, she looks uncertainly between the right side of the couch where Haymitch is sprawled and the left side of the couch where Effie is perched until Blaine opens his arms and she curls up between us. I'm reminded of the train ride that already seems to have been ages ago.

The broadcast starts. As always the announcements go in order of district. The Careers from the first two districts get high scores. Even the skinny boy from District 3 who's a good three inches shorter than Sarah earned a six.

When it's time for District 4 the over confident smile and regrettably dreamy eyes of Sebastian Smyth light up the screen. I scowl at his smug face. The not-so-little voice in my head is hoping that he gets an embarrassingly low score, but of course he gets an eleven. It's the highest score we've seen so far.

Haymitch lets out a low whistle, "Looks like Blaine's new boyfriend's one to lookout for."

Blaine and I tense at the joke. I can feel anxiety thrumming through his body, making his shake almost imperceptibly. I lean over to press a kiss to his temple, "You could beat him any day." I hope the words sound as encouraging as I mean them to be.

The rest of the scores pass by without anything too shocking. Most of the tributes get between a six and a nine. There are a handful of lower scores but nothing that would count a tribute out of the race altogether. I am a little surprised that the thin, stick-like girl from District 7 was able to get a ten.

Soon the picture of the female tribute from District 11 fades and Blaine's face flashes onto the screen. I would worry that I'm squeezing Blaine's hand so hard it's going to fall off, but he's squeezing right back so I think it'll be fine.

It feels like it takes forever for the bright red number to appear on the screen , but when it does relief washes through me. Eight. A good solid score, not high enough to make him a special target for the other tributes, but high enough to entice sponsors.

Blaine lets out a breath that he's been holding for far too long as the room collectively congratulates him.

"Good job, Blaine!"

"No one can argue with that score."

"Looks like you beat me." Blaine's shoulders relax and he allows a smile of genuine relief to spread across his face as we lock eyes.

There's a little whimper from between us and I look down at Sarah. All the blood has run out of her face so that even her dark Seam complexion looks sickly pale. Her eyes are fixed on the screen where Blaine's charming smile has been replaced by her nervous grimace. Next to her picture, emblazoned in a mocking shade of red, is the number two.

Sarah isn't crying. After her single whimper she hasn't said a word.

The broadcast ends.

It's Heymich who gathers his wits first. "Sarah, I want you to listen to me," his voice is low and intense in a way I rarely hear it, "that number is not your fate. We can use this to our advantage. The other tributes won't see you as a threat. They won't be breaking their backs to chase after you. You can run and hide and use your survival skill while they kill each other off. There's plenty of hope for you."

I clear the lump out of my throat. I should say something, I'm her mentor too. "Don't count yourself out. You've still got a chance." The words are dry and false on my tongue. How can I mean them when I'm grasping the hand of the only person I want to win the Games? There can only be one victor. I don't want that to be Sarah only because it that means it can't be Blaine.

The guilt that has been building in my chest threatens to burst through my rib cage. I can't be blamed for choosing one innocent life over another when one of those lives is everything to me, can I?

Sarah has never had much of a chance anyway. No, that's an easy excuse, words to assuage the guilt. I've been unfair to Sarah. Even if I couldn't make her the best equipped tribute for the fight ahead, my job was to believe in her, to make her believe in herself.

I hated Haymitch last year. Hated him for giving up on me, his tribute. But I've been just as bad to Sarah. All I had to do was believe in her but I didn't. I couldn't. I failed Sarah Mayflower.

And the worst part is, as long as Blaine comes out of that arena alive I won't be able to regret it.

Sarah seems more of a phantom than a person as Effie collects her and guides her back to her room. She rubs a hand in gentle circles around Sarah's prominent shoulder blades, murmuring light hearted assurances. I've never seen Effie look so maternal.

I catch a glimpse of Sarah's eyes as Effie leads her away. They look like empty brown pits, lifeless, hopeless. I wonder if this will be a permanent state until the arena. I don't think Sarah ever had much hope, but it's one thing to know you are going to die in theory, and another for the incontrovertible proof you're doomed to be broadcast across the whole country in one blood red digit.

Blaine doesn't say anything as we undress for bed. It's the first night that I'm the one woken up by his flailing limbs and desperate screams as he falls victim to the gruesome specters of his dreams.

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><p>AN: Should be about a week for the next part to be up.

Next up: "I won't let them make me a monster!" "Is that how you see me, Blaine? I killed three tributes in the arena. Am I a monster?"


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